Write On

I was rather hoping for a quiet, vivid chapter on a quiet Saturday morning. Instead, the bloodiest yet. Why would I hope that? McCarthy is like in competition, like those dueling headlines, with every other writer of blood. It is unrelenting, he is unrelenting. There are lulls, brief breaks; he draw strength from them, gathers himself, and writes on, through and past the breaks, blood dripping from his refilled pen, more blood than before, blood without end.